Un Germany: Vague Memories
by InquireTheOrigin
Summary: Inuyasha is an assassin for his father's Mafia. He hasn't the slightest idea of remorse or compassion. Fortunately for him, he's in responsibility over his father's empire. There's an issue though. Million dollar investments are stolen and the woman that did it does not only confront him in taking the money, but is ordered to kill Inuyasha. So, what's love got to do with it? A lot.


Disclaimer:_ I do not own Inuyasha_

A/N: Good Evening, guest and authors of FF. Today has been quiet the haste in writing and also a day of relaxation. For some odd reason I am very fatigued, but I refuse to give into rest until I finished this Epilogue of Un Germany. I'm not sure on how well this will become on FF, but hopefully I embark on some faithful readers! Also, to kind of clear things up, I decided to post a brief explanation of how the story will flow. I've been told that my vocabulary has sometimes confused those of my readers, so to make sure we have somewhat of an understanding, I put a short summary of what to expect.

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Short Explanation: This story is to be solely revolved around specific continents around the world. Their will be much traveling without the story. Also, it involves some depicted acts of gore, forced sexual practice, the mafia, and other related violence. It's a blessed love story about a man who grew up with his father, the notorious Inu no Tashio (psychotic at that). InuYasha was raised to continue his father work in practiced assassination. It explains further within the epilogue. A unfortunate event happens where his father's bank is flushed from millions of dollars stolen by a close alliance. Getting much older, it is now placed in InuYasha's hands to figure out why this has occurred. More importantly of course, who decided to embark on such a bold act? Well, fortunately for the up bringing InuYasha had inherited from his father, he has found a lead. Unknown to him, its a woman that will grasp his heart and a woman who will also become the death of him.

_Genre:_ Sexual Theme, Some Gore, Violent Situations, Humor, Romance, Family

_Pairings:_ Inuyasha/Kagome, Miroku/Sango, Sesshomaru/Rin

_Created Piece:_ Early Summer

_Setting:_ Germany

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Epilogue

Forgive me father, For I have sinned

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Aforetime my adolescence, my genesis; things weren't always what they seem. In the industry, the rouge and scarlet oils that embellished the arms of annihilation and intimate affairs were what all I was raised upon. And honestly, I had ignorance that valued galore more than I was able to regret. It cost the lives of faultless people and of a native body of politics—foreign societies that shun an obscured cimmerian into an unrefined self of I.

I sat at the lengths of lilac tresses as mother's maiden—_Kaede_—had interwoven my own, while basking a damp towelette onto its broad length. Funtsama Victorian styled heels stood high in stature amongst a beige basin. Emitting from the florescent gene pool had been a contemporary breath of lukewarm water. With a waft fragrance of vanilla and the texture of virgin maple, the appearance first reflected a honeyed tone of earth, but the altercation of image subsided as it was thoroughly cleansed. She played, as the fairness of threadlike growth had fallen between her slender tips.

She hadn't been the only maiden.

Each strand that cascaded from my temple had illuminated a ghastly neutral shade of azure and true it had been envied. It fell like an artificial summit into the laced deigning of mahogany floors. Capturing myself, I unconsciously faded into gay breast that stood well from desired attention. It was as if her touch was incoherently supple and the attraction of her teat had hardened bits that gouged into my spine. I was aroused in such fullness, and it became tender in ways as if she had invented the language of calligraphy.

After resting the small of my frame against her chest, under me stood perfection as she in turn wrapped it amongst my waist. And while I lied, she embedded a pigmented orchid bow to the end of my extended pony tail. In her attempt to caress and embrace, I had become memorized by Bankostu's—the pianist—ability to compose and the infatuation that was inseparable to his instrumental talent. He may have been beclouded across the way and bleary of my perception, but his maroon complexion was shimmering like a burlesque in the eclipse.

Throughout my father's estate, his virtuoso performance was impeccable as it wooed and often put me to rest. It could be heard like a lucid coil among strung wails and into the beckoning echo of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. It had become very anticipated that this melancholy would be moved throughout the corridors and its many affiliated favors. A close acquaintance and relation of compliments to our Latin relative, was something I favored over all happenings of sublime paradise.

There were more than corporate lovers that had bathed in this bloody residence. Proficiently, Bankostu had stroked the thoughts, private lessons, and that through music did he portray each unremarkable emotion. These tales were of our silenced hearts. He took what was never to be undone, and this alone had struck a chord into existence. It wasn't long until his works became inbreed with our oriental descendents and his position had contributed this pattern of sound, which became a closely acquainted partner with my father. His brunette complexion was well fond of and later became the treason of decapitated heads.

I, Inu Yasha, was brought into a world where freedom was only given to those who weren't consort and targeted for any source or matter of intelligence. The servitude and cultural production of men didn't mean a damn thing to me. Compassion, contemplation—these feelings—I never understood. Born by the notorious Inu no taisho; I casually inherited—by thick flesh—vial and sadistic practice, and the ambience of great wealth and economic stature.

I didn't truly gain understanding of what royal ancestry I grew a part of until the lagged age of eight. This meaning—the numerology of _Expiry—_had symbolized my beginning. I took under what needed to be understood on the behalf of my father's mafia, and _eight _had meant a great significance as to how I would continue on the family business. And in its significance became my rebirth, I stood and appeared differently before sire, a new blood oath—sire's new found art—of his enemies and my first assassination, and the growth of following my sire's footsteps.

It was the same as accumulating independence for the very first instance by momentum. It didn't take much to obey and refrain from disrespecting my educator. Though it was distorted teachings, I was fascinated by the various ways of persecution and torment that had been passed down for centuries. My father's father and distinct men before them had created a simplicity of hand written scripts. Each containing intimate detail of acts and wrath's—to some extent of even butchery—ended by pleasure and betrayal. It included texts that refereed to a medieval time period and up-to-date cases that involved classical impaling, disease, medical experimentation, and much more.

Voicing over and mimicking sire's heavy accent, and every reproach. Portraying exact movement was more than an importance to me, but later I found that I was forever left by none other than my own reflection and its absence took complete hold of his presence. The mere melodies that Inu no taisho whistle after crimson carnage could hush me to sleep and often did.

He displayed and refereed to his collection of heads as the foreign side to society's modern works of art. As of late last year, sometime after autumn, Keade hadn't been the only maiden. And because she had been the only one who hadn't slept with Bankostu, father did a bit of gathering for such craftsmanship. To make things much suitable to the light of heart; cold sire had took eight of the happiest and carefree works of woman into—what was once an addition to the den—a day-spa that had also contributed as a kitchen at the time. And this scullery of ours was also conveniently a decrepit gas chamber.

Till this day, he still marvels over such providence and polishes diligently for degrading their chastity.

In remembrance of such a site of torch and finance—one of many had come to mind in great significance. It was the languidness of the _Rosenthal _dinner. They were a German family that flew in from a tolerated part of Nigeria—one of its most beautiful spots—Benin City. After completing some afterthought on political affairs, they decided to vacate here in Europe. My father at the time had become closely acquainted with them, but wore their trust on the bare edge of his sleeve. It was just as ironic that he did the same with the love of my mother. Their meeting occurred in Venice, Italy. The trip was better spent worthwhile, even if I never became drunken in by its surpassing beauty.

After many reoccurring stops and derived sickness, we settled and prepared at an open Inn that was sought for various enterprise in London and Canada. Along with us was an assigned woman who rained of red hair and timid eyes. Her tag—that was fashioned into the profile of a feather—had read, _Kagura._ She was one of Inu no taisho's infamous remote mistresses. By her activities between the sheets of my father's quarters had many times bawled of my name, and in return did beatings submerge to the surface of caked interested in me, she was; especially when events happened to become more abstract then they should have, I was enticed. Sire often left me in wench's care to tend to his many prostitutes and equally horrific choosing of the feminine physique. So while away and proceeded about the towns, villas, and boards; I was left in the seducing tongue and allegedly lethal arms of this lioness.

Our time in Italy was not spent short.

After many months at a time—I remembered the discussions that fell through the Inn like a congested bar in the more formidable parts of _Lo Stivale_. I would often receive letters from Kaede about mother's visits to the infirmary. A few nights before, she had been diagnosed with early symptoms of _Schizophrenia _and hadn't had been animated enough to refer words to her maiden. Some time had dragged along before I was contacted, as she in turn was in the midst of her leave. She had been placed under close surveillance and hospitalization. At some point of urgency, mother could convulse into the point of sudden death; but even so I could not show remorse.

For father's name was boldly printed on each dashingly faced literal in recognition.

Still, I was referred as a lassie, accessible to make out important and _unsuitable_ documents; in other words, the regards of her illness would be attended to lastly. I pondered, how could someone appear so cold to the barer of their child? And then I came to a realization, why wouldn't sire afflict onto this so acclaimed property he claims his own? From my teachings, I was told that women were worthless and were only used for the sake of man. Their allure was incomprehensible and yet, very much lethal. And so, even through this enlightenment, my actions did not portray much truth to my naive understanding; in some degree, some bantam miracle, I conceived thoughts that resembled otherwise.

Bellowing calls had preached the evening—Kagura had been assigned for preparation before dinner had arrived in settlement, and there I was taken into the imagination of widowed seclusion. She adored the jagged ware that often bulged from my lips, and often smeared me with spices from her wept scent. Her hands would also lead to chiseled marks on my silhouette appearance, which strayed to a bulk between myself and the crinkled attire. At the time of my innocence, I had been stripped and defiled.

I took note and gander upon father as he gazed at the bleak approach of our presence.

To most it had appear emotionless, but I was the only one who understood that it was a pleasing site. In return, we seated ourselves amongst the visitors. It was a practice for any approval, and only came strange to virgin eyes—this was not dismissed. After chatter of tolerance, edgy critics, and preoccupied business, I had become raw. Flushed in shades of fuchsia, for the remainder of the evening my eyes lay fixed only on china that were disaccording and tainted. Calamari served fried with red beans puréed over cold couscous. A shot of vinegar stood aside with brittle bread and onions to garnish. All fresh from the chef's disquiet, and to finish the dietary was an essence to my sensitive stature—water.

Rid of impurities, something I was not.

My frame sent rides through the overdue evening. Slowly did the fixed posture diminish against the foreign parlor chair. I hadn't realized that it was rid of all feeling. Bellowing well, I begged for the promise of rest, but not now. I had only waited for father's dismissal. But of course, I lounged as Kagura stood serving in strapless couture, which shaped evenly into the curves and caressed the base of her bosom. Stunning she was, decked in somber satin. It was embellished with floral design. It reflected how flamboyant she appeared to be from the outside—in. Even so, I knew better. Something deeper had fallen through her, much beyond our establishment. Then as I pondered, I had lost all concentration and unable to think; because at that moment, the night had turned ominous.

I retracted the gaze only to hear the sinister laugh of the character I was to one day become.

Something felt warm. It was still and gradually became cold as it seeped into the creases that Kagura lips foretold were sweet. It had also blessed my cheeks, and I was painted and suppressed in the blood of a husband, then some of three innocent children, and once more for his lover. Each foamed before panting from cut throats. And all was done by the hands of an invisible force.

Me, myself, and I.

This was the pride and was sure entertainment for both to witness. I didn't realize I had been to blame until my stubbed hands were raw and douched in karma. A word that I never realized could haunt. Then it was sudden as sought to why I could have done such things. How could I have done such things, when in my reflection was a spirit of myself sitting beside what was once my father, that was now an acclaimed massacre? It was these emotions; the same that drove me to insanity, because I could not and would not understand them. It was not the word of Karma that haunted me, but it was I that kept myself awake at night.

This wrought family of _Rosenthal,_ drove me into a whirl of confusion. They were completed, fondled, and demonstrated something that was foreign. Is this why they deserved to pass on such a beautiful evening? What I did not know about this caressing group of Samaritans, is what took the life of them all. So free they were, and so happy I was not. In ways they discussed, Mr. Rosenthal was entwined with bliss as he induced the charm of his lover –coiling her with anticipating kisses and excitement, engrossed children with toys and their laughter of chastity, and the heights of photos, celebrations, and ill compassion. Maybe, just maybe—I couldn't stand the thought of being secluded, rejected, and strained of the life they weren't able to portray ever again.

I had only wished that Inu no taisho—my sire—had only been confidential in my development. At so young of an age, I had seen death as a different outlook and as a masterpiece of carven work. He had become an employer and indefinite to being employed by his own government to obtain intelligence about other countries, military, and naval affairs. He had his rank and never did it stray from excellence. He had many alliances that were mostly cut and killed by suspicion, paranoia, and out of the same lust for slaying unimportant necessities.

I grew to this ruthless path.

But as all notorious mobsters, gangsters, and well elite villains have their flaws. My sire's perfection and most adored alliance was the one whom knew of his goal since the kinder age of twenty.

As many things that may have seemed innocent to me then, can only be brought to knees of what was once sour child play. I was broad in the height of my shoulders and remained pale to maintain my position. Some would call it the bud of a rose and others would refer to me as the spiritless child. And this had only been the infatuation of the cremated color of mine mane hairs. Erect orbs that stayed fixed on the weaponry that hung from clothed dressers, intimately closed closets, and drafted windows. All of it reminded me how vintage my past continued to be, even though I remained in its unpromising future—in the current sense of melancholy.

This is what followed and shaped the path of a more sadistic practice than proud thoughts. The beginning of my demise.

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A/N: I hope you found that to be filling for the mind. The next chapter will be posted within a reasonable constrain of time. I will try my very hardest to post often and will reply to those who review. Thank you for the support and don't forget to review and/or critique!

Thank you,

-ITO


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